


Persistence

by Sibilant



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: 500 Words Challenge, Ficlet, Future Fic, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 13:57:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9494582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sibilant/pseuds/Sibilant
Summary: Arthur and Eames have a not-so-chance encounter.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to tumblr, archived here at reader request. Written for the word prompt 'eternal'.

Eames and his team are two levels down and only metres away from the safe when the windows blow in.

Eames hits the ground instinctively, rolls behind a couch as a SWAT team pours through windows like gun-toting ants, screaming for everyone to surrender.

Everyone (save Eames) runs instead.

There’s sporadic gunfire in the hallway outside, punctuated by curses and screams as Eames’ team is kicked out, one by one. Then: silence.

Eames peers over the back of the couch, only to find himself the sole target of Arthur’s exasperated stare.

“I can’t believe you’re working today, of all days,” Arthur says, tucking his helmet under his arm. “I should probably shoot you just for that.”

“But you won’t.” Eames gets to his feet, smiling his most charming smile. “Not yet, anyway. And you must admit, it’s somewhat fitting, me working today.”

Arthur sighs, fondness diluting the exasperation. “Maybe.” He looks Eames up and down. “You look good.”

“Of course I do,” Eames says. His face and hands sting from a dozen tiny nicks and cuts. He’s covered in dust and splinters. The ever-present dull throbbing in his knee has upgraded to a stabbing pain. He feels the furthest thing from good, or even looking good.

Now, Arthur, on the other hand— Arthur _actually_ looks good.

Arthur grins when Eames says as much. “Well, to be fair, it’s easier for me,” he says, devoid of humility as ever, and Eames’ chest aches with fondness. Arthur walks over to him, tugging off his gloves and kevlar vest; he nods upward. “How long before they give you the kick?”

“A while, I’d imagine,” Eames replies. “They’re likely debating whether I’m working something out or dying a slow, terrible death.”

“You need to get on top of that. You can’t have your team hesitating over what to do on live jobs.”

“Thank you for that unsolicited critique.” Eames doesn’t roll his eyes - it seems undignified at this stage of his life - but it’s a near thing. He tries to remember who was in charge of this militarisation (and therefore responsible for this Arthur’s persnicketiness) before realising, _oh_ — it was Eames himself. “However, they’ve performed dozens of these militarisations now.”

“Dozens?” Arthur stares. “You mean you actually went ahead with it?” Disbelieving laughter accompanies the last word. “Eames. That’s—” He shakes his head, lets out a long breath. “That’s a hell of a lot of effort for a private joke.”

“It started as a joke.” Eames smiles, wistful, remembering how Arthur had laughed until he cried over the irony of living forever as the bogeyman of illegal dreamshare. “And then it became an experiment.” Because Arthur, after all, had never met a novel dreaming concept he hadn’t wanted to woo and get to know better. “And now…”

Arthur takes Eames’ hand. “Now?”

Eames stares down at their hands; at Arthur’s calloused but unlined fingers, and his own slackened, papery-thin skin. His throat tightens. “Now it’s an odd, ridiculous memorial for an odd, ridiculous man.”


End file.
